Liza King

The Common Ground Restaurant on Elliot Street in the late ’70s was “a place for really tasty healthy food and great conversation,” wrote photographer Roger Katz. “The pace of life in town was a bit slower then, sometimes allowing for ‘extended’ lunches at the larger common tables with provocative co-diners.”

There was no stopping us

In the 1970s, we came from everywhere to this place, this time, this piece of history

That summer.

We were in our glory then, spilling out into the streets, cropping up like dandelions, disheveled like young puppies, hairy and floppy. There was a war going on across the world, and we had arrived at a little Vermont town with a cumbersome name. It was 1973.

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Millions versus billions: for Sanders and Bloomberg, scope and context matter

More than once now, Democratic presidential candidate Pete Buttigieg has lumped together the millionaire and billionaire candidates on the debate stage, proudly claiming that he is the only person on the stage who is neither. Let us look at the real difference between millionaires and billionaires. Here is one...

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Compassion over fear

You can’t understand what life has been like for people living and seeking money on the streets, what demons that person is battling. But you can try to imagine yourself in that person’s shoes.

Many people are upset about the panhandlers in town these days. Some people presume this is a result of laziness on the part of these folks. Some moral defect, perhaps. I have some thoughts about this and some questions to ask. I hope you will consider these with an...

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Becoming white

My Nana Lekas sacrificed all she knew and all she was in order that her children could become Americans. She knew that she herself would never become one, though she lived in this country 67 of her 89 years and came over on the boat when she was merely 22. When Nana worked as a maid in a wealthy Boston suburb, she would come back to her children - my mother and aunts - and present the new ways of...

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Loitering in Harvard Square

It was 1968. My high-school boyfriend John and I were hanging out in Harvard Square, talking. We were standing on a street corner saying our goodbyes for the day when a police car pulled up next to us. The officer got out of his car and walked toward us. “We have a report that you're loitering,” the officer said. “Funny,” I thought. “Everyone loiters in Harvard Square. In fact, Harvard Square is all about loitering!” Then, much to my surprise,

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